


All Shook Up

by autumnalbee (redherring)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 1950s Mentality, Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - America, Football Player John, Greaser Sherlock, Greaserlock, John has a crush on James Dean, M/M, Sexuality Crisis, Smoking, Snarky Sherlock is snarky, drive-in movies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 07:19:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2973512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redherring/pseuds/autumnalbee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>A-well a-bless my soul, what's wrong with me?</i>
  <br/>
  <i>I'm itching like a man on a fuzzy tree</i>
  <br/>
  <i>My friends say I'm actin' wild as a bug</i>
  <br/>
  <i>I'm in love; I'm all shook up</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Shook Up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nardbagel](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=nardbagel).



> Gift for [nardbagel](http://www.nardbagel.tumblr.com) for the November/December Exchangelock! They asked for greaser!lock, which I've wanted to write for a long time, so I was really excited to do this one! 
> 
> There's some slang that may be confusing; while I tried to make their meaning obvious, they're all taken from [this list](http://www.citrus.k12.fl.us/staffdev/social%20studies/pdf/slang%20of%20the%201950s.pdf), just in case you want to look one up. The only word not on that list is "flit," which means "gay." (And I'm assuming that's accurate, since it was in _Catcher in the Rye_.)
> 
> That's about all the research I did for this one, and I'm still not entirely happy with the way it turned out, so I might go back and work some things out later.

John tapped his fingers on his desk. Sherlock was supposed to have picked him up twenty minutes ago, but there was still no one in the driveway. At this rate, they might not make it to the movie in time, and damned if John wasn’t going to see James Dean tonight. He’d walk the mile and a half to the drive-in, if he had to.  
  
But another five minutes passed, and there was still no sign of Sherlock. John was beginning to think that maybe he’d been stood up, that it’d been some sort of joke when Sherlock asked to take him to the movies with his gang. Granted, Sherlock was the only one of those stupid greasers who hadn’t been a complete dick to him, but maybe that was the reason. Make the football captain look like an idiot. It was already bad enough that he associated with greasers; getting stood up by a group of them would have put the metaphorical nail in his social coffin.  
  
If John were being real honest with himself, though, he wanted to go with Sherlock anyway.  
  
A few minutes later, he heard some sort of noise coming from down the street. He scrambled out of his chair and walked toward his bedroom window. Sure enough, there was the fire-red Thunderbird, windows down, a loud, almost obscene noise radiating from it. Arms and heads stuck out the windows, which, unfortunately, meant that Sherlock had brought the gang, as well. Still, it meant a free chance to see James, so John would put up with them if that was his reward for the night.  
  
He rushed downstairs, saying a quick goodbye to his sister, who yelled something about the music over the noise. John just waved at her as he ran outside.  
  
“You got shotgun,” one of the goons called from the back seat.  
  
John headed around to the other side of the car, opened the door, and slid onto the seat. Sherlock was at the wheel, his leather jacket collar popped up around his neck, a pair of sunglasses over his eyes, and a cigarette just barely between his lips. He tossed a due back into John’s lap before driving off, burning rubber so fast that John was jerked back into his seat.  
  
“Could you maybe not do that?” he grumbled, fumbling the pack open and pulling out a cigarette before tossing it back to Sherlock. There was a book of matches on the dash—among other things John wasn’t too sure about—so he grabbed it and lit up.  
  
“ _Could you maybe not do that?_ ” one of the guys in the backseat mocked, causing the rest of them to laugh.  
  
“Ooh, look, I’m a tough-guy football star and everyone loves me!”  
  
“What a flutter bum!”  
  
“But I’m not a flit, because I love the ladies!”  
  
John turned back around to face them. “Drop dead—“  
  
Before he could finish, Sherlock turned the Thunderbird to the left so quickly that everyone else was jostled to the left. John briefly had to lean against Sherlock, but once the car was stopped, he scooted away quickly.  
  
Sherlock paused for a few moments, tapping the ash off his cigarette out the window before speaking. “Get out.”  
  
No one moved. John looked at the three guys in the backseat, then back at Sherlock. The music was still blaring, but no one made a sound.  
  
“I said, get out. All of you.”  
  
John sighed and reached for the door handle. Damn it. Now he’d have to walk all the way to the movies, and all because of those dumb greasers—  
  
“Not you, John.” Sherlock exhaled through his cigarette slowly, waiting for his goons to get out of the car.  
  
“We’re mighty sorry, Sherlock.”  
  
“Yeah, we didn’t mean nothing by it!”  
  
“I don’t know why you’re taking him around, anyway!”  
  
Still, they all eventually shuffled out of the car, and the minute the door was closed, Sherlock took off again.  
  
“Why’d you do that?” John asked.  
  
The corner of Sherlock’s mouth turned up into a sort-of smile. “Wanted to get rid of those stooges anyway. Good excuse.”  
  
John licked his lips. “Right.”  
  
Usually, when he went to the passion pit, John was either with a group of guys or his Sophie at the time. He hadn’t ever heard of anyone going with just one other guy, not unless they were flits. And John wasn’t a flit. So.  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You’re not gonna lose your pretty-boy toughness, John. It’s just a flick.”  
  
“How’d you—“  
  
“You clenched your hands into fists.” Sherlock pointed at John’s lap with his cigarette, “and looked out the window like you were nervous.”  
  
John blinked. “That’s pretty cool. What you did there.”  
  
“Is it?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
They didn’t speak for the rest of the drive; instead, the music filled the silence. To be honest, although he’d hated it at first, John was starting to like whatever it was. It was wild and loud and rebellious, all the things he wasn’t. But he could see why Sherlock and his goons liked it, and he felt just a tiny bit wild and loud and rebellious for listening to it.  
  
When they got to the drive-in, it was hopping. They weren’t too early, but nearly every spot was already taken, and they’d got one of the very last ones in back.

“You can barely even see from here,” John grumbled.  
  
Sherlock didn’t look bothered by it at all as he grabbed one of the speakers and put it on the dash.  
  
The sun was just starting to set, and all the dollies and their guys headed out of their cars to watch. It was a good sunset; lots of blues and pinks and oranges and purples.  
  
“Nice,” John said.  
  
“Yeah,” Sherlock sighed.  
  
John waited a few seconds. “Why do you hang with them?”  
  
“With who?”  
  
“Those guys.”  
  
Sherlock tossed his cigarette butt out the window and lit up another. “They hang around me.”  
  
That doesn’t make sense, John thought, but Sherlock seemed done with the topic. “Why’d you offer to take me here?”  
  
“I don’t like bulls,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Who says I’m not a bull?”  
  
“You are a bull.”  
  
“So what’s the deal—“  
  
“Movie’s starting.”  
  
Sure enough, the sun was gone, and the title credits were rolling. John settled into his seat, throwing the remaining bit of cigarette out the window.  
  
“You’re not supposed to smoke here,” he said, eyeballing Sherlock's own cigarette.  
  
Sherlock just crossed his arms.  
  
About ten minutes in, the car in front of them started rocking. Sherlock didn’t seem to care, but the creaking was really starting to piss John off, as it seemed even louder than the speaker.  
  
“Jealous?” Sherlock asked, his eyes not leaving the screen.  
  
“No,” John scoffed.  
  
“Heard your girl left you a week ago.”  
  
“Do you mind? I’m trying to watch the movie.”  
  
Sherlock shrugged.  
  
“I left her,” John added quietly. He wouldn’t have anyone think he was the one who’d been dumped.  
  
“And why’s that?”  
  
“Movie.”  
  
Pause.  
  
“You like him.”  
  
John looked over at Sherlock. “What?”  
  
“You like him.” Sherlock pointed at the screen, which was currently occupied with James Dean and his love interest.  
  
“He’s a good actor, yeah.”  
  
“No.”  
  
John frowned. “Uh, yeah, he is.”  
  
“I meant that’s not why you like him.”  
  
Oh. John swallowed. “What do you mean?”  
  
“You wouldn’t have agreed to come if it was just another movie. We don’t get along that well. So there was something about this one. You’re not a Steinbeck fan; you started reading Grapes of Wrath but never finished it, as you only brought it to school twice. If you were actually interested in the plot, you wouldn’t be talking right now.  
  
“But don’t worry, Watson.” Sherlock took a long drag from his cigarette. “Secret’s safe with me.”  
  
“I’m not gay,” John said quickly.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“I’m really not.”  
  
“I believe you.”  
  
“Good.” John nodded once and licked his lips, turning back to the screen. His heart was pumping loud in his chest. What if Sherlock did tell? Sure, John wasn’t a flit, but he did like James Dean. He also liked girls. So there wasn’t anything to it. Just a one-off thing, that’s all.  
  
Several scenes passed without incident. The car in front of them stopped creaking, and John had to bite back a smile once or twice and ignore the fluttering feeling in his stomach when James looked especially nice. At one point, though, he heard the rustling of leather, so he glanced over at Sherlock, then behind him.  
  
“What’s that?”  
  
Sherlock smirked. “Thought you wanted to be a doctor.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Then it’d probably be good if you knew what an arm was.”  
  
John stared at him. “Why’s _your arm_ around my shoulders?”  
  
“Got a problem with it?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow.  
  
Yes, John thought, he did. What if someone happened to walk past and see them? What would they think? “We’re not on a date.”  
  
“You got a point?”  
  
“I’m not gay.”  
  
“Yeah, I got that.”  
  
“So you are?”  
  
Sherlock turned to him, his face inches away from John’s. The light from the movie lit up the side of his face, and his eyes—god help him—nearly sparkled. “What’s it to you?”  
  
John had to blink a few times before answering. James wasn't on screen, but he still felt that weird butterfly feeling in his stomach. “Just—it’s fine. I won’t tell anyone.”  
  
“I don’t care who you tell,” Sherlock sighed, leaning back, but not removing his arm. “No one’ll mess with me.”  
  
“No one’d mess with me, either,” John said. “If I were.”  
  
“You know, you don’t have to be a flit to like guys.”  
  
“I don’t.”  
  
“And yet you looked at me a minute ago the same way you look at pretty boy on screen.” Sherlock tossed his cigarette out the window and turned back to John. “Whom you haven’t been paying much attention to, if he’s the reason you came.”  
  
John rolled his eyes. “Get bent.”  
  
“Just calling it as I see it.”  
  
“I’m getting popcorn,” John grumbled, opening the door.  
  
“Take this. ’S cold.” Sherlock tossed something at him, and it wasn’t until John grabbed it that he realized what it was.  
  
Before John could protest that that certainly would not look right, Sherlock had closed the car door. John stood there and glared at him for a moment before heading to the snack bar, balling the jacket up in his hands. He didn’t care how cold it was; he was not going to wear Sherlock’s jacket.  
  
As luck would have it, there was a considerably long line, and John wound up at the very end, as he didn't see a familiar face further up. He stuffed his hands in his pockets to keep warm, but that didn’t help the rest of him. He shivered, cursing the fact that he hadn’t thought to bring his own jacket.  
  
But he did have one with him.  
  
John gave the area a quick once-over, making sure he didn’t see anyone he knew, and slipped the jacket on. It was a bit too tight in some places, and in others it was too big, but it immediately warmed him up.  
  
Eventually he made it to the front of the line, and after handing over a quarter and getting a bucket of popcorn and two drinks in return, he headed back to the Thunderbird.  
  
“Got you a Coke,” he said, handing over one of the glass bottles. “Didn’t know what you liked.”  
  
Sherlock glanced at the bottle, then at John, and smiled. “Yeah. Coke’s fine.”  
  
John put the bucket of popcorn between them on the seat and settled back in. The movie was nearly over; he must have been in line longer than he’d thought. Still, it was nice to have something to warm his belly, and he pushed the bucket toward Sherlock when he noticed he wasn’t eating any.  
  
“Don’t like popcorn,” Sherlock grunted, sipping from his drink.  
  
“More for me, then.” John left the bucket between them, just in case he changed his mind.  
  
Soon, the movie was over, and the credits were rolling. Not even a third of the popcorn was gone, and John hadn’t even had time to finish off his Coke, not to mention the fact that he’d missed a good chunk of the movie by talking and waiting in line.  
  
Oh, well. He supposed, if nothing else, it was an excuse to come back and see James again.  
  
Sherlock wasted no time. Once the movie was over, he put the speaker back on the rack, flicked on the headlights, and floored it out of there so fast John had to grab hold of the lip of the dash to keep from flying around. The radio had been turned back on somehow—probably because of Sherlock’s shoddy driving, John thought—and it was still as loud as it’d been earlier.  
  
“You’ll wake everyone up with it that loud!” John yelled over it.  
  
Sherlock laughed. “Ain’t nobody asleep at ten on a Friday night!”  
  
Still, as they approached John’s house, he turned it back down to a dull roar. He turned off the lights just before John’s driveway and parked the car.  
  
“Thanks for, uh, the movie,” John said.  
  
“Yeah.” Sherlock turned the ignition off and rested his wrist on top of the steering wheel. “No problem.”  
  
John cleared his throat. The moon was out, now, and it was bright enough that he could make out Sherlock’s silhouette. “I’ll just, uh. Go, now.”  
  
“All right.”  
  
He stared at Sherlock for a moment longer, watching the way the moon framed his face and made his skin glow. Sherlock looked nothing like James Dean; that much was obvious. But he’d been right. John felt the same sort of fluttery feeling when he saw Sherlock as he did when he saw James. And god knew he’d never have the chance to sit in a Thunderbird with James-fucking-Dean.  
  
Before he could think things through, John leaned over and pressed a soft but quick peck to Sherlock’s cheek, one hand on the door handle. The minute it was over, John opened the door to make his escape, ears burning hot.  
  
“Hey.”  
  
John turned around. Sherlock put his hand on John’s arm, pulling him a bit closer, and kissed him properly on the lips. No funny business, just a somewhat-unsure kiss that made John tingle from head to toe.  
  
And then Sherlock pulled away far too soon, a smirk on his face. “See you Monday, Watson.”  
  
“Yeah,” John managed. “See you.”  
  
When John walked back into his house—just a few minutes before his curfew—his sister was sitting on the sofa, where she’d been all those hours ago, reading a book. She set it down when she saw him, smiling. “Where’s that from?”  
  
John blinked. “What?”  
  
She pointed. “Where’d you get that?”  
  
"Um..." He followed the direction of her finger and sighed.  
  
He’d forgotten he was still wearing Sherlock’s jacket.


End file.
